


Object Permanence

by Whreflections



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Cooking, Domestic Fluff, Drabble, Established Relationship, M/M, Men of Letters Bunker, Slightly angsty fluff
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-04-26
Updated: 2014-04-26
Packaged: 2018-01-20 20:40:01
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,265
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1524833
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Whreflections/pseuds/Whreflections
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sam comes into the kitchen fresh from the shower after a morning run and finds Dean cooking breakfast.  Slightly angsty fluff ensues.  (Because they're Winchesters; even the fluff has angst.)  Written for/inspired by a tumblr post by waterbird13.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Object Permanence

**Author's Note:**

> So I really am hard at work on the last bit of super painful angsty wincest fic with a comparatively happy ending(lmao), BUT I saw this post on tumblr (http://waterbird13.tumblr.com/post/81801491322/sam-freshly-showered-after-his-run-coming-up), and I couldn't resist writing a lit bit of fluff because I needed happy boys as therapy, dammit. 
> 
> So. Here is the therapy I wrote myself. And now I'm going to go to sleep, lol
> 
> (Note I forgot to add last night- this is set at some unspecified future point in which the boys are fucking happy and taking a short-ish break from hunting for awhile. That's it; that's all you need to know, lol)

Dean used to sleep through his runs.  Even if Sam woke him first, by accident or by design.  By the time Sam finished and came back he'd be passed out again, curled tight under a lumpy hotel comforter or sprawled out across the sheets, taking up the space he never properly could with Sam in bed with him.  

These days, Dean's up the minute he moves, even if he's careful, even if he does it slow.  He's not sure what it is, exactly, maybe a change his breathing, the sudden lack of warmth or just the subtle vibration of his weight shifting off the mattress.  Even memory foam is insufficient to keep Dean from sensing him, it seems.  (And if that isn't appropriate, he wouldn't have the first idea what is.)  

If he asked(and he has), Dean would give his excuses.  Too much sleep, since they've taken a little time off.  He has projects, the cars in the garage he's altering, the stores of weapons in the bunker he's trying to work his way through.  He could fabricate reasons for miles if Sam kept asking but he doesn't, he can't, because the truth itself hurts enough.  

He's at the stove when Sam finds him after his shower, an omelette pan between the eyes, a measuring cup and an egg in his hands.  Sam envelops him, his arms wrapping tight enough around Dean's waist that he's pressed back against Sam's chest, his hips, no space left between them.  Dean's hair when he nuzzles into it to kiss it smells like sleep, like freshly clean pillows and sheets and things they never had until they made this place a  home.  

Dean is warm and pliant against him, the work of his hands stilled without the faintest hint of impatience.  Instead there's the tilt of his head against Sam's shoulder, the barely perceptible shift of weight into his arms that tells him that for as long as he doesn't let go, Dean would let himself be held.  

Here, right now, there is no chance that Dean will shrug him off, curse his dampness or his heaviness.  He won't say a word about the jogging, or Sam's unnatural healthiness, and Sam doesn't precisely miss those things, not quite, not really, not yet.  (He will, he knows he will, but by the time he does, he's certain they'll be back.  That much, he believes.)  Dean is, for now, too grateful to complain, too long cold to pass up his warmth.  

It worries him, even as he understands.  He doesn't yet find too much distance between them overly bearable, either.  So he stays, holds on until Dean's chest is almost rising and falling in time with his own, until he's almost sure that if he closed his eyes, he could drift off just like this.  

It's tempting, the thought of dragging him away from the stove and back to bed, but Dean came in here to make breakfast, and he won't ruin it for him.  Sam kisses the top of his head one more time, slowly unwraps his arms from around his brother's waist.  Dean's shirt is riding up from his boxers just a touch, just enough that his fingers brush a narrow stripe of skin across his stomach.  He's warm there too, warm all over.  

Dean's already made coffee and Sam goes over to pour a cup, turns around to face the counters and Dean's back before he starts to sip it.  The coffee's perfect, strong and hot.  Dean is moving again, cracking eggs, humming under his breath something that could be Kansas, maybe Yes.  He's in his rattiest t-shirt, too small, his hair ruffled, stubble dark where he hasn't shaved and he's beautiful.  He's so fucking beautiful.  

Sam clears his throat.  "You gonna make me one of those?"  

"I don't know; think you can manage to fry some bacon?  I don't cook for freeloaders."  Sam can hear his smile.  

"Yeah, you do."

"Yeah, well, not anymore.  Bacon, Sammy.  Top right drawer."  

Sam takes another sip of his coffee, one more after that just to stay where he is a minute and watch Dean pour the eggs into the pan with one hand, switch the eye on with the other.  For a man who's spent essentially his entire life living out of the trunk of a car, he has an inordinate amount of skill at a variety of tasks associated more with proper homes than roadside motels.  

Once the eggs are in the pan Sam goes for the bacon and pulls out two kinds, the maple one and the stupid jalapeno stuff Dean picked up in Nashville.  (He calls it stupid, every time, just to watch Dean rile at the accusation.  It's surprisingly good, really, but if Sam can help it he won't ever admit it.)  There's blueberries on the shelf up above and he snags those too, pulls the lid off as soon as he sets them down on the counter and pops two in his mouth.  They're cool and sweet and just at the right stage of ripe, not too mushy, not too strong.  

He gathers up another, sidles over to Dean and catches him around the waist again, one armed.  With the other he brings the berry to Dean's lips, not quite touching.  "Here."

"Have you even gotten a pan out for the bacon?"

"Will you just take it?"  

He does, his mouth so careful against Sam's fingers until his teeth catch on the tip of his middle finger, a slow deliberate drag.  He doesn't move, and Dean doesn't retreat, flicks his tongue against the pad of Sam's finger before he suckles at it.  It's light, hardly a second, and still when Dean's mouth is gone and his fingers are empty, Sam's chest is tight, his skin diffused with a heat that spreads from the back of his neck to his cock.  

"Those're better in pancakes."  Dean's eyes are on the egg in the pan, but the corners of them are crinkled with an almost smirk that makes Sam laugh, leaves him unable to resist ducking his head against Dean's neck to kiss the soft skin just above his shoulder.  

"Tease."  

"I have no idea what you're talking about, Sam."  

Sam turns away, bends to tug open the drawer where if he rattles around enough, he should find a good pan for bacon.  And maybe a griddle.  

"Hey, would you want pancakes?"

"I don't know, that depends."

"On?"

"On whether or not you'll actually do it."  Dean leaves his post long enough to snag a bag of cheese off the counter, dump a little into the palm of his hand.  "Put chocolate chips in mine with the blueberries, ok?"

"You're disgusting."

"Damn straight."  

Dean still moves a little slow, something a little worn in movements so simple as the twist of his wrist that Sam can't quite put his finger on.  Maybe it's half in his head, half because he knows to look.  Beneath his eyes Dean's skin looks paper thin, dark as a bruise.  If he sleeps more now than he has in the last year, it's not showing, not yet.  At some point, they're going to have to talk about that. 

For now, there's breakfast, too much of it, enough to make up for a few memories of mornings without, of stale Cheerios eaten out of Styrofoam cups.  Here, Dean can eat as much as he wants, fresh and hot and never once microwaved.  

And after he does, Sam can take his brother back to bed.  For now, they've got nowhere else to be.  


End file.
